Shadow boy
by Shang Penguin
Summary: Dumbledore is officially dead and Snape most definitely a traitor, but war marches on and leaves little time for grief. And here we pick up the story right where Rowling dropped it off. Rated T to be safe. Begun pre Book 7, now officially AU.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This fic is meant to remain relatively faithful to canon. Sorry the title is so emo, if you have any suggestions I'd be welcome to hear them. I disclaim everything except the plot.

* * *

"Why did you ask me to meet you here Mr. Nott? I don't particularly remember being one of your favorite teachers," Remus asked as he threw back his hood in the dim light of the Leaky Cauldron. They sat at a small, inconspicuous table near the center of the room. Tom the barkeep specially reserved it for these kinds of meetings. 

"I wish to… make an offer." The seventeen-year-old answered quietly, staring impassively at his former professor through a pair of un-rimmed spectacles. He smiled thinly. "It is an offer I do not make lightly."

"I gathered that much. What is it you want? Safe haven from Voldemort?"

Remus silently awarded Theodore points when the only change in the boy's features to indicate his fear of the Dark Lord's name was the twitching of an eyelid. The thin-lipped smile remained in place.

"Not for me, Mr. Lupin. It's officially too late for me to disappear. I have taken the mark," another barely perceptible twitch, "and I wish to offer myself as a spy."

"And why would I be interested in that kind of information, Mr. Nott? I do not work for the Ministry." Lupin countered tonelessly, struggling to keep his own poker face in check.

"The Headmaster and I… discussed it several months before last June. I was to give him my answer when the term ended."

"So the only person who can vouch for your personal allegiances in this war is dead."

Theodore's smile slipped a little. "Yes. I'm afraid so." He hoped it was enough.

Remus sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring back at Theodore. The lycanthrope was relatively good at reading people. But Theodore had been taught, like most pureblood children, to hide his inner thoughts and struggles. And Theodore had always excelled in his studies…

"Did—" Remus fought with his words for a moment before continuing. "Did your former Potions Master know about your discussion with the Headmaster?"

"I did not have the impression it was so. My… former Potions Master did not think the Headmaster required another spy. I believe the Headmaster spoke with me without his knowledge."

"Why didn't the Potions Master want another spy?"

"Binding oneself to the Dark Lord is something I would not wish on my worst enemy—well, perhaps on my _worst_ enemy, but certainly nobody else. The Headmaster believed that the Potions Master did not wish to pass on his burden to another, and thought that it was his duty alone."

Remus shook his head in frustration, the reel of recollections that he had gone through too many times already once more flashed across his memory. How one person could fool so many, even _Dumbledore_…

Theodore stared at the table, looking right through it. Tracing the ring made by the condensation on his glass of water, he lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper. "Draco Malfoy was my friend, Mr. Lupin. I do not want to watch the Dark Lord consume another. He will not consume me."

"So…" Remus tapped his fingers on the table, "you want safety for someone else?"

Theodore smiled again, finding himself curiously glad. "Yes. She has a better chance of survival among the Order than among Death Eaters. Not much more, but some."

Remus frowned. "Is _she_ in any immediate danger?"

"That is more up to her than it is to anyone else. It depends on how long she can keep from screaming at what she calls 'the goddamn pureblood patriarchy.'" Theodore gave the impression he wanted to laugh. He didn't.

Remus sighed again and stood up. "I need to discuss this with… the others. May we continue the delightful conversation later?"

Theodore nodded. "I will send you a time."

"And I will send you back another one instead." Remus adjusted his cloak and was about to leave when he turned back to Theodore again. "Does she know you're doing this?"

Theodore looked up at him, having already become lost in his own thoughts. "What?"

"The girl. Does she know you're doing this?"

"And have her yell at me for trusting a bunch of Gryffindors with her life? I think not." Theodore reached into his shirt, pulled out a parchment envelope, and tossed it to Remus. "I was asked to give this to you. Goodnight, Mr. Lupin."

* * *

A sixteen year, eleven month, twenty-six day, twenty hour, and forty-three minute old Harry Potter sat on a bed, staring impatiently out a window of the Dursley's house. It was only two more days until he was gone of this place forever, two more days until the Dursley's would probably decide to kick him out, and those two days could not go by fast enough. 

Not that he had any idea of what to do once the time came. Well, there was the search for the remaining horcruxes of course, but where to start? Why not go back to school and start there?

But was there anything left to teach him that would help him get past Voldemort? Some hidden spell, some particular flick of his wand? N.E.W.Ts seemed unreal and utterly immaterial in comparison to the ever-to-mind Dark Lord.

At least that was the excuse he intended to give to Hermione when she discovered he'd done very little of his homework over the break. Almost none, in fact. Nightmares of green light seemed to invade even his waking hours…

He vaulted off his bed, took a guilty glance at his school trunk, and grabbed a pair of dilapidated sneakers before he headed out the bedroom door. Walking down stairs and through the hall, Harry silently passed his aunt, uncle, and cousin as he pulled on his shoes, ignoring the stares that flickered between fear and suspicion.

Some things never really change, do they?

Harry left the icebox of the house behind him, walking into one of those hazy summer nights that still shimmered in the heat. He had almost made it to the park at Magnolia Crescent just trying to occupy his thoughts with anything but the green light…

Man, this heat's bloody hot, isn't it? Better than all of that fog last year. Everything needs a bit of sunlight, right? Except maybe that grass plot over there. A bit brown, patchy. Come to that, it's always brown and patchy. When was the last time I saw it gree—

Um, swings. I remember those swings. Used to swing on them. Yep. Never had any one to push me, but I managed. I always managed. Yes sir, I managed. Always been rather self-sufficient, haven't I? I had to learn to swing _myself_. I remember doing it right there on that swing, the one to the left, the one that's gree—

CRACK.

Harry whirled around, pulling out his wand as he did, a defensive spell already coming to mind, his heart beating a tattoo on the inside of his chest. But the apparator had already grasped his arm and was talking before Harry could even get in a word.

"Harry! We've been looking all over, we've got to get you out of here—"

Something flipped on in Harry's brain (probably due to the shock of red hair upon the apparator's head) and told him he was being held by a Weasley. Arthur Weasley, in fact.

"Mr. Weasley? What are you—"

"Deatheaters, lad! On the way to Privet Drive, the wards must have dropped when Dumbledore—passed on—we expected you to be at your aunt and uncle's house—"

Something _else_ flipped on in Harry's head, but this time the light bulb was so bright Harry had to close his eyes.

When had he stopped thinking of Number 4 Privet Drive as home? What had been that final, completing moment? There were so many possibilities…

And he had promised Dumbledore to stay as long as the Dursley's would let him. _Damn_.

Green radiance flashed up into the air like a Chinese rocket and exploded like a pinwheel to reveal a skull made of emerald stars, a snake coiling out of its mouth like an iridescent tongue.

Right above Privet Drive.

Harry's mind froze as the sparks reflected in his eyes.

Green light.

Green death.

A man flung from the tallest tower, the sweeping arch—

"Harry! _Harry_! Come on, Harry! Stay with me!"

Harry hazily focused on Mr. Weasley. "Right. Yes."

"Have you ever side-along apparated, Harry? Yes? Good. Hold on tight."

The gruesome constellation was the last sight etched on to Harry's eyes before another resounding CRACK reverberated across Magnolia Crescent.

* * *

Theodore slept. He dreamed. 

He knew these caverns from his waking hours, but rarely had they been so silent. Or, rather, so peacefully silent. The caves had known the type of oppressive, suffocating stillness that magnified all those eerie, hair-prickling little sounds that no one ever wanted to hear in the dark. The Dark Lord seemed to specialize in that kind of silence.

Theodore proceeded slowly, holding up a blue-burning lantern against the encroaching, ever-grasping darkness.

He was looking for something.

Theodore slept. He searched.

* * *

A/N: You know the drill. Please review, or don't expect new chapters. 


	2. Chapter 2

"You really think he's trustworthy, Remus?" McGonagall asked, peering over the stack of papers she was shuffling in her hands. She sat at what was now the Headmistress' desk, in what was now the Headmistress' office. She always had the sense that she was just playing pretend when she sat at this desk, surrounded by a vast array of silver, tinkling machinations and instruments, most of which she did not know how to use, but hadn't the heart to clear out. She was not used to being behind this desk.

Lupin was pacing the room, having declined a seat when he had first arrived. "I don't know Minerva. His information was certainly accurate, not to mention useful."

McGonagall scowled. "I remember much of Severus' information being useful also." She put her papers down with an irritated sigh. "I also remember Nott being one of Severus' favorite students. Quite the prodigy, or so he said. He does do well in my class."

Lupin stopped in front of the window that looked down on the lake and watched as the Giant Squid gave a lazy wave before sinking back into the water. "Can we really do without him, Minerva? Do you remember what it was like _before_ we had a spy? We were fumbling in the dark. Fumbling in the dark and probably blindfolded too."

McGonagall sniffed indignantly. "I suppose we must then. But we must also_ watch_ him, Remus. Make _sure_ he doesn't know anymore than he needs to."

Lupin, acknowledging his dismissal, nodded with a glance at his watch and swept out the door.

* * *

Harry cracked open an eyelid, awakened by the sound of feet thumping on the stairs outside of the room within which he slept. He vaguely remembered Mr. Weasley ordering him to bed not long after they had arrived at Grimmauld Place. It had been approaching ten in the evening… 

"Harry! You alright?" Ron asked bursting in through the door and throwing himself on the end of Harry's bed. "Dad says they attacked your home with the muggles last night."

"I'm… fine. Are the Dursley's all right?"

"Nobody told us anything accept that you were here, Harry," answered Hermione as she, too, stepped into the room, albeit in a much more reserved and dignified manner than Ron. Harry absent-mindedly noted the bitter edge of her tone.

Harry swung his feet over the edge of the bed so he was sitting instead of laying back. "Who else is here? Beside you two and Mr. Weasley, I mean."

"The whole family has kind of moved in again," answered Ron. "Lupin, McGonagall and some others are working on putting a bunch of new wards around the Burrow so Bill and Fleur can have the wedding there sometime next month. 'Mione has been staying with us, erm, most of the summer really…" Ron turned red around the edges.

"Professor Lupin and Tonks are both here too. I think he and Professor McGonagall have taken over as heads of the Order." Hermione continued, ignoring Ron's blush.

Harry rubbed his eyes and suddenly realized why his sight had been blurry. His hand groped about on the nightstand until it found his glasses and shoved them on his nose. "How about we—"

They all winced when Mrs. Black gave an incensed scream with the ringing of the doorbell. Harry pushed himself off the bed, walked halfway down the stairs, and paused, waiting to see who was at the door.

Remus had already walked over to drag the curtains around Mrs. Black portraits shut and was opening the door. His body hid the person on the other side.

"I take it I am at the right address."

Harry frowned at the voice. It wasn't quite familiar…

"I would certainly say so, Mr. Nott. I'm glad you made it. Were you followed?" Remus asked nonchalantly, stepping aside to let Theodore in.

"Probably. But it hardly matters—you're headquarters is quite well hidden, I must admit."

Nott? But wasn't he one of Malfoy's cronies? What in hell…?

"Harry, this is Theodore Nott. Theodore, Harry Potter. I believe you are both in your seventh year at Hogwarts." Remus had turned around to notice Harry standing on the stairs.

Theodore locked his impassive eyes with Harry's and gave a slow, careful nod. Harry just stared. No hands were put forth for shaking, no smiles offered in welcome. An awkward silence pervaded.

Remus coughed into the quiet. "Theodore will be attending meetings of the Order from now on, Harry. I'm sure you will be considerate?"

Harry gave Remus an alright-but-you-have-a-lot-of-explaining-to-do look before he nodded and went back up the stairs.

* * *

Remus led Theodore into the dining room, checked to see that it was absent of any of the other current residents of Grimmauld Place, and then pulled out his wand to make the room imperturbable. He pulled out a chair and offered it to Theodore, who took it. Remus sat down across from him. 

The older one smiled. "Lets get all expectations and considerations out in the open, shall we? What did you have in mind for your lady friend?"

Theodore leaned back in his chair in a way that most would call a slouch if he hadn't managed to look so impeccably dignified while doing it. Few, however, could deny the exhaustion that marred his features. "I want her watched over and guarded, preferably without her knowledge, until term begins. Once she's finished with school I want her moved to a safe house, from which she can write all her little propaganda pamphlets in peace."

Remus tilted his head to the side. "Is that all?"

"A place to stay myself would be nice, but not necessary. Business will be easier if I am not continually under my father's eyes."

"We have several rooms here. It's actually rather large on the inside. We could clean one out for you." _And then I could keep you under_ my _eyes_.

"Seeing who the other residents of this house are, do you really think that wise?" Theodore asked, the tone of his voice blatantly skeptic. _If there be a God let there be an alternative_.

"Let's see… it's either a safe house for you, if you don't want to stay here, or a safe house for your friend. The wards we have to cast are rather complex. This place is already strongly warded."

"How strongly?"

Remus' face went unreadable. "Strong enough."

_You're not as stupid as they made you out to be, are you, you blasted lycanthrope?_ Theodore let himself give Remus a grin. "Then it would seem I'm stuck here, Mr. Lupin."

A/N: Review, _review_, REVIEW!


	3. Chapter 3

What were they all playing at? Had they learned nothing at all? Snape had injured the Order in a way that might never heal—why take that chance with another spy? Harry glared at the grime-stained walls of Grimmauld Place. He had told Hermione and Ron that he was tired and was just going to lie down some more. Ron had given him a half-hearted "Sure thing, mate" with a shrug and left without complaint. Hermione frowned at him and almost opened her mouth to say something before shaking her head and reluctantly following Ron.

Harry was lying on his bed and staring at the wall with a gaze that wasn't quite brooding but was certainly pensive when Remus walked in and quietly closed the door behind him.

"Harry?"

The recipient of the gentle entreaty feigned sleep.

"I know you're awake, Harry," Remus continued, using his firm professor tone. "I just want to speak with you."

Harry turned towards him to lie on his other side. "Why did you agree to this?" He decided a straightforward approach was best. "Why did you bring him _here_ of all places? How can you be sure of him?"

Remus pulled the chair that sat in front of the desk next to the dresser towards him and sat on it backwards to remain facing towards Harry. He ran a hand through his hair with a weary sigh. "To answer you first question, Harry, the truth is we need him. Desperately. We still need eyes and ears among the Deatheaters to maintain what little advantage we have. That is, if we ever had one in the first place. I'm starting to have doubts about that myself."

Harry nodded. He'd been wondering the same thing.

"Secondly, he can't reveal Headquarters' location because it has a new secret-keeper—me. If were to keep an eye one him, this is the best place to keep him. He can't contact anyone without us knowing about it, can't reveal our location. It is best he remain here as much as possible."

This time Harry shook his head. "But he'll learn things he shouldn't know, won't he?"

"He won't know more than what can be discovered by simple eavesdropping, and that won't get him far." Remus gave him half of a smile. "We've managed to keep things from you, haven't we?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "Yeah. But won't he sit in on Order meetings?"

"Only long enough to tell us what he has, and then we send him out. We can't be sure of his loyalty, Harry, so we're keeping a much better eye on him than we ever did on Snape. All right?"

Harry looked skeptically at him for moment before answering, "All right," and then rolling over again to turn his back to Lupin, which signaled the end of the conversation.

* * *

Theodore wandered out of the kitchen and into the entry hall with an expression of mild curiosity. He would have thought that the Order of the Phoenix would have been above such tawdry things as torture, but Dumbledore's recent death may have resulted in a sufficient decrease in idealism to allow the remaining members to stoop, as it were, to new depths. The hell-breeching scream that had occurred on Theodore's arrival at the house was definitely evidence for the prosecution. 

Had they perhaps captured one of his fellow Deatheaters and rigged him to a contraption that caused him pain with every ringing of the doorbell? What an ingenious notion! Physical and mental discomfort in one neat package. He needed to investigate this further.

His first thought was to investigate the doorbell itself. Examining the wall that he knew was behind the doorbell outside, he noted no irregularities. Something purely magical then? Or did the wall entirely encase the machine in question? He tapped it with his knuckles to search for hollowness, which brought his eyes to the curtains.

He frowned. He could not remember a window being present on the outer side of the wall, even a curtained one. What would a curtain hide beside a window? A particularly gruesome painting?

No, that would be silly. Why waste perfectly good curtain on a painting you could just take off the wall? No, Theodore suspected something far more sinister. And for this reason he could not resist to take a peak behind the fabric obscuring his view.

He immediately regretted this course of action.

"CREATURES OF FILTH, DESECRAT—"

Theodore let the curtains drop again. Admittedly, something that shouted insults at passerby would be something to conceal. But he wasn't one to be scared off by something that wasn't actually physically agressive, at least not yet, and in a sudden fit of personal bravado, he flung open the curtains and plugged his ears to save what was left of his hearing.

"—ING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS, I SWEAR—"

"Madame!" exclaimed Theodore, discovering it was a portrait, albeit a foul one.

"—I'LL MAKE YOU ALL SORRY, YOU MUD—"

"Please Madame! I mean—"

"—BLOODS AND ANIMALS AND TRAITOR—"

"—you no agitation! Oh for the love of—"

"—OUS SCUM AND SONS OF LECHEROUS EXCURSIONS—"

"MADAME!"

Matriarch Black stopped mid-tirade and looked down at Theodore indignantly. "And what do you want, _young_ sir?" She said the word "young" like it was a curse upon him and all his descendants.

Theodore removed his fingers from his ears and answered smoothly: "I wish to know why a woman, obviously one of prestige and leisure like yourself, would be yelling indecencies at a most _unbecoming_ volume. It hardly fits your, ah, persona, to say the least. Has something upset you?"

"Do you know what place this is, Master…?"

"Mister, actually. Mister Nott. I turned seventeen last May, you see."

"Oh yes, of course. And do you know what place this is, Mister Nott?"

"I know it is in London, Madame, but besides that I am ignorant."

"This is the most Noble and Ancient House of Black, I inform you, and it is currently being defiled and devoured by all sorts of indecent personages!"

"Sons of Lecherous Excursions, Madame?"

"Well, some of them are bound to be dastards, aren't they? It's obvious from the state of their character."

"Ah, yes Madame. Of course. I'll see what I can do about it, yes?"

"See that you do, Mister Nott!"

"Of course. Good evening to you Madame." Theodore hurriedly closed the curtains before the conversation could continue. "My God, that woman is _hideous_."

"She is, isn't she?"

Theodore whirled around to put his back to the wall, though in retrospect he was not sure he wanted the hideous portrait to his back at all. But it would have hardly been proper to, at that point, turn around again, so he decided to compromise by taking a small step forward.

"Granger, isn't it?" He managed to ask politely. "You're in most of my extra curriculum classes, aren't you?"

Hermione eyed him with pursed lips and hands firmly on hips. She looked wary, and was practically radiating such a no-nonsense mentality that Theodore began to wonder if it were primary Gryffindor trait, though a female one. It had a disturbing resemblance to McGonagall. "I should think I'm in all of them, since I highly doubt you'd be stupid enough to take Divination, or have enough intellectual drive to take Muggle Studies. I suppose it's below you, isn't it?"

Theodore crossed his arms to give her his most exasperated glare. "Everyone knows Muggle Studies is the cop-out class for students who need extra-curricula but are too stupid to take anything that might actually _challenge_. The muggle-borns and half-bloods don't need it, and the pure-bloods won't use it because none of them plan on occupations in the area of magic-muggle liaison—it's a field already dominated by muggle-borns and half-bloods."

Crickets chirped loudly as Hermione stared at him for a moment.

"Do you have that written down somewhere, or did you just think it up on the spot?"

Theodore scowled. "It doesn't hurt to be prepared. And it's a perfectly good argument."

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps. You're Theodore Nott, right?"

"Yes, I suppose I am. Why?"

"Are you the new spy? It figures the Order would be looking for a new one now that… Snape is gone."

Something visibly softened in Theodore's features, letting Hermione see some through the veneer of haughtiness to the exhaustion underneath. This surprised her. "Yes. That is why I'm here."

"So you're the one who saved Harry?"

Theodore raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You're the one who gave Lupin the note that told the Order to get Harry out from Privet Drive, because the wards had fallen, aren't you?"

"Oh yes, that. I did do that. I'm glad Lupin, ah, acted in time."

"Then I owe you my thanks, I think."

"Your thanks? What for?"

Hermione laughed. "Harry's my friend, Nott. I rather like him alive."

The smile Theodore gave her was strained. "Yes, I suppose you do."

Hermione decided to tactfully ignore any sarcasm that may have been in that comment, and gave him a genuine smile in return. "Thank you, Theodore."

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

* * *

A/N Will somebody please review? Some of you must have something constructive to say. 


	4. Chapter 4

Harry sat, with much hidden excitement, at the kitchen table of Grimmauld Place as preparations for his first Order meeting (namely Mrs. Weasley's bustling to retrieve cookies from the oven and place them on cooling racks), went on around him. The only marring of this experience was the fact that Theodore Nott similarly sat at the same kitchen table, waiting for the same meeting, meticulously observing his fingernails. They calculatedly ignored one another.

Professor McGonagall, looking as brisk and professional as ever in her stately muggle tweeds as in her teaching robes, gave a polite greeting to Molly, a clipped nod to both of her students, and began to shuffle through various paper which she had pulled out of a unobtrusive and obviously well-used briefcase.

While Harry had seen McGonagall in such attire before, it was hard not to snicker at the Theodore's raised eyebrow and overall incredulous facial expression. The Slytherin opened his mouth to say something that would no doubt be insulting (and since McGonagall would be the one answering back, amusing), but then Remus entered the room, followed by Tonks and Moody. Theodore seemed to think better of his comment and, to Harry's disappointment, subsequently closed his mouth.

Remus hastily began to introduce Theodore as he saw the ex-Auror's hand inch towards the inner pocket of his coat where he knew he kept his wand.

"Alastor, Tonks, this is Theodore Nott. He's here by my invitation," Remus stated pointedly, as he watched Moody's hand twitch, "and I believe he will prove to be quite the asset to the Order."

Theodore gave the three standing adults a disinterested smile before going back to his fingernails. Moody grunted in a way that gave no doubt as to his disapproval and sat down with clunk on one side of McGonagall as Lupin took the other. Tonks gave the lycanthrope a reassuring squeeze of the hand and a commiserating smile before taking her own seat.

Molly placed a plate of cookies at the center of the table and quickly took her own seat, signaling to Remus to begin the meeting. Harry realized that not all the Order members were there—compared to his standing count, very few were actually in attendance. With a frown, he decided to pocket the information and ask Remus about it later.

The first topic was, of course, the recruitment of Nott and his responsibilities as an informant. Harry suspected that this was the only reason he was attending this meeting at all—so he wouldn't attack Nott in some dark corner first chance he got? Because he knew, they all probably knew, he had been one of Malfoy's little toadies up until last June?

He learned that Nott had taken the Mark at the end of June, with full intention of becoming a spy, if not for the Order than at least for the Ministry. Dumbledore had discussed it with him, he said, more than once. Harry watched as only the most fleeting of emotional expressions passed across Nott's face as he answered Moody's thorough interrogations. Looking down he noticed the hands that Nott had been so methodically examining before were now curled into white-knuckled fists under the table. Harry resisted the urge to grin. Even Slytherins seemed to suffer from nerves.

The tension of the room subsided some when Moody finally leaned back in his chair with a disgruntled "humph" in Lupin's general direction. Apparently he was satisfied enough not to jinx Nott on the spot, at least not yet.

And Harry's suspicions were finally confirmed when Remus asked, though very politely, that both he and Nott leave for the remainder of the meeting. Harry struggled not to make a face, grabbed a couple more cookies, and followed Nott out the kitchen door.

They stood in the hall in uneasy silence for a moment before Harry gave up on finding something civil but unfeeling to say by way of goodnight and was about to turn and go up the stairs to his room when Nott stated quietly, almost to himself:

"You doubt my sincerity."

Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Words seemed to be coming hard to him this evening. "Yes, I do." He met Nott's eyes squarely. "If it were up to me I would never have let you get this far."

The other boy nodded agreeably. "Understandable—I wouldn't trust me either if I were you." He leaned against the wall, looking almost nonchalant after the rigid anxiety he had exhibited back in the kitchen. "You never know with a Slytherin. The line between cautious trust and outright stupidity is a thin one. Some might even say it is nonexistent."

Nott stretched his arms, throwing them wide, pushed himself off the wall again, and walked down the hallway to retrieve his coat from a hook next to the front door. He shook it out a bit before settling it around his shoulders. "With any luck we won't have to see each other until school starts," he continued as he reached for the door. "Until then, Potter."

"Wait, Nott."

Theodore turned around politely.

"Remus may trust you. But the simple thing is, I don't. And I swear to God, Nott, if you betray the Order, if I even hear a _whisper_ about you betraying the Order, I will hunt you down and—"

"And what?" The civility was gone.

Harry stared at him a long moment. "I don't think either of us really want to find out. I know I don't."

Theodore gave him a grim sort of smile. "Spontaneity always makes it more fun, don't you think?"

And then he was finally out the door, leaving Harry to stare at it a while before deciding to go back to bed. It was enough excitement for one night.

* * *

"He seems awfully young to be a spy, Remus dear." Molly answered the unspoken question as she stood up to do something with her hands. That was one of the benefits of holding meetings in the kitchen. "I don't know how he could stand up to that kind of pressure."

"How does anyone stand up to Voldemort, Molly?" Remus massaged his temples. He was wondering why he had ever taken Dumbledore seriously when the older man asked if he would run the Order in the case of his death. It had seemed a pointless promise back when he had made it. Everyone knew secretly that Dumbledore was going to live forever.

"Well, I hope you know something we don't, Lupin." Moody growled, beating a monotonous cadence on the hardy leather of his personal hip flask. "From what I see, he could go either way. May not have even decided yet."

"Then we should try to lean him in our own direction, shouldn't we?" Tonks asked the group as Molly began to scrub the baking sheets from the cookies. "Make him feel a bit more like this is where he belongs?"

"If you're sayin' we should give him friendly pat on the back and embrace him like he's family, you're talkin' to the wrong man, missy—"

"He's doing this because he wants protection for a friend." Remus interjected before Tonks could think of something inflammatory to say.

"What kind of friend?" asked Molly from the sink.

"He has indicated that she is female." McGonagall answered, snapping her briefcase shut. Remus ignored Tonks' snicker.

Moody scowled. "So the boy's young _and_ romantic. By God, Lupin, I hope you know what you're doing."

Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, Remus countered, "I do too."


	5. Chapter 5

Theodore let the lusciousness of the pillow lay claim to him for a few more moments. His eyes remained closed in blatant disregard to the damnable sunshine now peeking through his curtained windows as he shrugged up his blankets to further cover his face. He gave into the comfortable seduction of his bed without any serious inner struggle. Theodore knew when the cause was lost.

For this same reason he was not overly amused when the Nott family house-elf, a gloomy little creature that went by the name of Stubbinson, appeared with a wince-inducing CRACK and began to frantically shake Theodore within an inch of the young master's patience.

"Master Theodore! Master Theodore must wake! Wake, wake, wake! Up, up, up—"

Theodore's attempted to pull his pillow over his head. "Try again in a week, will you?" he managed to mumble.

"—no time, Master Theodore, there's no time! Up we must get, get up and dressed—"

Realizing all passive responses were in vain, Theodore propped himself up on elbow to make sure Stubbinson could see his displeasure. "Merlin, Stubbinson, I don't care what father says, I'll get up when I bloody well—"

"—it is not your father, Master! Oh no, she is comings up the stairs now!" The house-elf bounced off the bed, passed the writing desk, and began to pull out miscellaneous items of clothing and throwing them at Theodore, who looked utterly perplexed.

"Stubbinson, what the hell is going—"

Then the door burst open, and with a venomously cheerful "Good morning, Theo!" all was suddenly explained, a fact which sent a chill into Theodore's heart. "Still have your arse in bed, I see."

Stubbinson turned around with a long-suffering, piteous expression to look at his young master, and told him belatedly: "Miss Pansy is here to see you, Master Theodore."

But Theodore had already grabbed his blankets to his uncovered chest in a pathetic attempt to maintain some form of respectable social convention and was gawking at her wordlessly.

Tucking a trendily cut lock of black hair behind here ear, Pansy turned her full-lipped smile on Stubbinson. "I'm sure Theo would request some tea if he retained all his faculties at the moment."

The house-elf disappeared with an entirely unhesitant CRACK.

Theodore regained the use of speech. "God, Pansy, do you—I mean that—_where the hell did you put your sense of decorum_?" he hissed.

Pansy seated herself quite casually in an armchair sitting near Theodore's floor-to-ceiling bookcase. "Threw it out with last year's fashions just this morning, Theo love," she answered with a flippant grin. "I hope that house-elf's quick about it, I'm parched."

In an effort to maintain some sort of dignity, he grabbed for one of the shirts Stubbinson had thrown at him and began to hastily pull it over his head. "And you just couldn't wait in the parlor for, oh, about fifteen minutes?" He asked, his voice muffled through the cloth.

"It would have been more than fifteen—I swear, Theo, sometimes you primp worse than a girl. And I get bored so easily, so I just thought I'd come and visit you up here; see where you hide all your darkest secrets, deepest desires, dirty magazines. That sort of thing."

Buttoning the top of his shirt, Theodore scowled at her. "I do not believe I own any of the lewd and licentious literature of which you speak. You must be mistaken."

At that point, Stubbinson appeared with another CRACK, placed a tray holding two teacups and plate of biscuits on the writing desk, and quickly disappeared again.

Pansy reached for a cup as Theodore picked up a biscuit. "So you _are_ gay then."

Theodore promptly choked on the aforementioned biscuit and nearly had to spit it out to reply. "Pansy," he began calmly, albeit through gritted teeth, "this topic has already been thoroughly exhausted: I'm _not_ attracted to _men_."

"You've just never had a girlfriend before, even though your heir to one of the oldest pureblood lines in Britain? Mm-hmm."

"Not to mention that we're also one the most financially decrepit. Does my social ineptitude amuse you?"

"You're not socially inept around me, Theodore."

"You're a slut, Pansy." Theodore answered dismissively, swallowing the rest of his biscuit. "I don't have to be courteous to you."

Pansy leaned forward to place her elbows on her knees with a lilting smirk. "But it does have its compensations, don't you think?"

Theodore busied himself with his tea and hurriedly changed the subject. "Why exactly are you here anyway?"

She walked over to Theodore's window, actually glass doors that led to a balcony, flung open the curtains and pouted at what should have been a picturesque scene of summer in the English countryside—however, the fog was thick and the land especially barren for this time of the year.

"I wanted to go into London and do some proper shopping; I've only got a month after all, but both father _and_ mother insist I have an escort and neither will go with me. As if I couldn't take care of myself! I'm not some pathetic little porcelain doll!"

Theodore settled his cup on his plate with a skeptic's raised eyebrow. Eyeing the skirt she wore (which stopped about mid-thigh), her _very_ figure-flattering blouse, and her meticulously applied make-up, Theodore suspected her parents' reason for demanding she have an escort had very little to do with her personal safety. "And this has what to do with me, exactly?"

Pansy turned around and gave him her most charming smile. "You're going to be my escort, of course! Isn't that lovely?"

"I can't escort you, Pansy: I'm probably one of the reasons your father thinks you _need_ escorting."

"Then he should have been more specific." She responded briskly, sitting on the edge of Theodore's bed.

He scowled again. "Fine. Get out so I can get suitably dressed."

She reached for the door. "Only fifteen minutes?" she asked, turning round with a soulful look and batting her eyelashes at him.

He gave her a little twist of smile. "I'll make it ten, just for you."

She gave him a much more characteristic sort of grin and closed the door behind her.

Stubbinson CRACKed in soon after. "Will you or the Miss be needing anything else, Master Theodore?"

Theodore, already reaching for a pair of pants, shook his head. "No, I don't believe so. What's father doing, by the way?"

"Making sure the stables is in good condition, Master Theodore. He plans to buy another horse within the month," the house-elf answered despondently.

Theodore rolled his eyes. The Nott family had sold all its horses before Theodore had even started Hogwarts, and father still had yet to bring the family far enough out of debt to replace them. But every couple of months, quite regularly, he told Theodore and anyone who would listen that he was looking at the market for some fine racers. Theodore had learned to ignore the more colorful of his father's habits—it was easier to forget the shadowed days of his childhood if he tried to ignore his father altogether.

"Tell him I'll being going out, would you?" he asked resignedly. Father would be upset: he was going stir crazy under house arrest as he awaited impending trial for the attack on the Ministry two years ago. He didn't like for Theodore to leave the house either.

The house-elf nodded and disappeared again.

Theodore finished dressing, checked his appearance and the mirror, and left his room to head for the parlor—all while trying not to think of the old, dilapidated widower who he knew was wandering about the old, dilapidated stables. Some things were harder to forget than others.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry meandered down the stairs in search of breakfast: he hadn't eaten since the afternoon before (Mrs. Weasley's cookies didn't count. He had only eaten four). His first sight upon entering the kitchen was worrisome.

Mr. Weasley was engaged in tense conversation with Remus. Neither looked happy, but it seemed the unpleasantness of the topic was mutual. They weren't arguing.

Remus, shifting his gaze to look over Mr. Weasley's shoulder to see Harry, gave him a smile that wasn't really a smile at all.

"Harry, the news is…bad."

Mr. Weasley turned around to look at Harry, his eyes red and tired. "I'm sorry Harry, but you're Aunt and Uncle…"

Harry froze. Privet Drive. He had already forgotten why they had brought him to Grimmauld Place at all. "What happened?" he asked, his throat constricting, making him hoarse.

"Your Aunt is at St. Mungo's. They say…she'll be there a long time. The mediwizards couldn't stabilize your cousin before getting him to the hospital…" Remus told him gently.

Mr. Weasley shook his head. "Your Uncle had already been killed by the time Aurors arrived. I'm so sorry Harry…"

Harry sat stiffly at the kitchen table. His life at Privet drive already seemed far away, surreal, like a dream. Guilt twisted inside him like a serpent, biting at him with merciless poison.

They were dead because of him.

* * *

"Normal clothes aren't good enough for you now? Is that it?" Theodore asked waspishly. He was already carrying two boxes under one arm and three bags with the other and it wasn't even time for lunch yet. 

"Don't get testy with me, Theodore. Normal is just another word for average." Pansy had insisted on shopping in muggle London, which not only meant that her articles of choice were far from the witch or wizard's standard robes, but that Theodore could not shrink the growing load of packages that was accumulating about his person, in case he was spotted by muggles. He found this fair reason to be waspish.

"I thought the whole point of fashion was to _fit in_, so as to avoid the complete social disassociation of one's peers." Theodore stated, rifling though a display of Italian silk scarves disinterestedly.

"A good fashionista follows trends," Pansy admitted, but with considerable smugness she added, "A great fashionista sets them."

"Not that you're superficial or anything." Theodore mumbled.

"I heard that. Don't forget I'm the one who's buying you lunch." Pansy threatened, critically eyeing a pinstripe number with matching pumps. "Anyway, Twillfit and Tattings is trying to bring back the Renaissance look, and that makes me looks _so_ thick-waisted."

"Would it be so bad to add a little thickness to your waist? Or is emaciated the trend you're trying to set?" Theodore found himself staring thoughtfully at one of the store's plastic models, thinking that if the designers felt the need to be entirely anatomically realistic one should be able to count the ridges of its ribs. "Or perhaps emulate?"

"I'm not emaciated," Pansy answered, forming the lips she had painted a (the only positive word that Theodore could think of was _striking_) shade of red into a despondent little pout. She quickly brightened at the sight of the aforementioned silk scarves and began to sift through them eagerly. "I'm tastefully slim."

Theodore looked up to the ceiling with an expression that said, in very explicit body language, "Why me?". She was mad _and_ deluded.

Pansy turned to look in a nearby mirror, a green and black scarf wrapped fetchingly around her neck. "Father told me about your new choice in body art. He was…impressed."

Theodore's left hand clenched convulsively. He should have known she'd find out before he gathered the nerve to tell her. She always had an ear out for gossip.

"I was going to tell you eventually." Theodore carefully watched her expression in the mirror.

"Just like Draco was going to tell us? Eventually?" she asked with a sharpness to her tone she didn't often exhibit, whipping around to look at him. "Or maybe not at all?"

Theodore's eyes followed her as she walked away to put back her selection. "This is different, Pansy."

"It's always different."

"What do you want me to say?" He questioned, his voiced edged with irritation. Why was she being even more difficult than usual?

"Nothing!" she snapped angrily. "Don't start giving a damn about me now! You were doing so well before!" She stomped away, in the same fashion, Theodore remembered, that she had done when they were little and Theodore had committed some grave offense, such as taking the stone that _she_ had wanted to skip (and had previously ignored right up until that point), choosing the book that _she_ had wanted to read (similarly ignored), or had gotten the role _she_ had wanted when they had acted out little scenes from an anthology euphemistically entitled _Children's Shakespeare_ (she always wanted to play Hamlet, but Theodore knew he was _so_ much better at dramatic monologues). Most of the time it was better to just let her go off and fume for a while. But she wasn't sticking him with all her parcels to either wait her out or give up and pay for them so he could _leave_.

"Will you at least tell me what I did wrong?" He asked, walking up to stand next to her. "How else am I supposed to know how to screw up even more?"

"Sorry, Theo love," she answered—she seemed resigned. "The last couple of months have been…hard. This just makes it harder."

Theodore's innate awkwardness radar was definitely identifying a signal, but he tentatively probed further. "Why?"

"Losing two friends in two years to purposeless death is cause to a couple of drinks before noon, don't you think?"

Theodore struggled not to roll his eyes at her dramatics. "I'm not dead yet, Pansy. And you don't know he is either."

"I know he'd be better off that way," she said with a shrug.

His cynicism was obviously rubbing off on her. Wasn't _he_ supposed to be the pessimist? "But what if he's still alive? Still sane?"

Pansy eyed him incredulously. "You can't be serious."

"When am I ever not serious?"

Pansy looked away, shaking her head in disgust. "That's why you joined. So you could find him."

He glared at her. "So what if I did?"

"You'd give away everything to get him back, wouldn't you. Even those stupid things you call principles."

His smile was brittle. "Almost, Pansy. Almost."

"Even serve the Dark Lord that destroyed his life?" Her laugh was mirthless. "Who will probably destroy ours?"

"Even that, Pansy."

She plucked the scarf from the display, folded it up, and stuffed into one of Theodore's bags. "You're a fool, Theo."

"I know, Pansy." Theodore said, hoping this might placate her. He just couldn't _wait_ until she realized he had arranged for her protection without her consent. "And here I was thinking that was already common knowledge."

* * *

Harry found himself standing outside St. Mungo's psychiatric ward completely unsure of what to do next. What antagonism Mrs. Weasley had once felt towards the Dursley's had been transformed into a great depth of pity, and she had given Harry a small bouquet of flowers to take to his Aunt, who, he had been told, was occupying a bed behind the door he currently stood in front of. 

He was sure something hadn't quite clicked in his brain yet. Aunt Petunia couldn't be in the room beyond—she wasn't part of the magical world, she had no _place_ in it—but everyone said she was. So… he would just have to prove them wrong. Harry pushed the door open and determinedly walked through.

The antiseptic, not-quite-natural-but-trying smell typical of hospitals was stronger in here. Harry felt as if it was muffling his brain.

He gazed along the rows of beds, noting with relief that Lockhart (Lockhart and Petunia in the same _room_? It wasn't _possible_), though apparently still in residence, was fast asleep.

"Who are you here to see, dear?"

Harry quickly turned around, but then reddened at his own jumpiness. "Petunia Dursley," he answered, a little sheepishly.

The healer, a wizened little witch with a tranquil air about her, patted him gently on the arm. "The second to last bed on the right, dear. Are you family?"

Harry looked towards the bed, anything to not look into the small, knowing eyes of the healer. "She's my aunt."

"My condolences." The little witch looked at the bed too. "No doubt she'll be awake," she concluded, giving his arm a final squeeze in an attempt to comfort him, before walking away to another bed.

He walked over and stared at the curtains surrounding the bed for what seemed like an hour, and then stiffly pulled them back.

Petunia was not herself, not as Harry so vividly remembered her. Her hair was a flyaway mess, though the remnants of a bun were still visible at the back of her neck; her crisp, orderly jumpers were replaced by the traditional, ill-fitting hospital gown. But her face looked older, more creased, more grey. She twisted and wringed the sheets in her bony, nimble hands that had always smelled of cleaning solvent; she had scrunched her eyes shut, as if desperately trying to keep any ray of light, or perhaps any glimpse of reality, from filtering through her eyelids.

And she muttered. She muttered the panicked, almost-nonsense of those whose consciousness was away in sleep and nightmares and madness. Harry was surprised he hadn't heard her before, but then guessed they must have charmed the curtains to block quieter sounds, so not to disturb her or let her disturb others.

"I don't know where he is, I don't, he is, he doesn't live, no, no, he doesn't live, who is he? Who is, he's gone, he doesn't—"

She reminded him of Barty Crouch Sr. and his ramblings, but his madness had been an escape. Harry feared (his face paling as it occured to him) that Petunia's was probably a cage.

"Aunt Petunia?" he asked tentatively.

He was about to ask her again when she opened her eyes, her head snapping around to look straight at him, her hand snaking out and grabbing his arm before he could put down the flowers, which dropped to the floor as she yanked him towards her.

"Harry, Harry, you have to run!" she whispered to him furtively, her eyes darting right and left, wide and panic-stricken. "They're looking for you, they'll do anything, anything, you must run, escape, hide, looking for you, Harry Potter, _they want Harry Potter_—!"

"Calm down, Mrs. Dursley," the healer said firmly, but not without kindness. "That's it, let go of Mr. Potter."

Petunia dropped him as if he was made of hot lead and went back to grasping the sheets as if they were her only lifeline, eyes twisted painfully shut. Harry staggered back, almost falling back on the empty bed behind him.

The healer witch closed the curtains again, bringing an abrupt end to the sound of Aunt Petunia's whimpers. She picked the flowers up of the floor and began to meticulously arrange them in the empty vase that sat on the table next to Petunia's bed. "I'm afraid she might not be good with visitor's for… some time yet," she told Harry soothingly. "But don't give up, dear."

Harry did not bother to grace her comment with any kind of reaction, but instead walked mechanically past the rest of the beds and out the door, not taking a breath until he was leaning against the wall outside the ward. The breath was a shaky one.

He didn't quite feel like crying: the Dursley's had never been anything like _fond_ of him, and he had never liked them either. Maybe it was a guy thing. But then something in him finally clicked, or broke, or snapped, like a dam made of toothpicks and water-soluble glue, and he wanted to scream, and he turned around and punched that wall so hard it cracked plaster and he probably would have let his other fist join in on the party if a healer hadn't poked his head out from the doorway across the hall and told him crossly that he was disturbing patients and to stop _right now_ or he'd be escorted off the premises. That sobered him. Barely.

This had to stop, he thought as he walked down the stairs towards the hospital tearoom, where others were waiting for him, his mind spinning with rage. Be stopped. Ended. And he was the only one who could do it. Why wasn't he doing anything? Why wasn't _anyone_—?

"How'd it go?"

Harry let the voice invade upon his mental invective. "What?'

Hermione frowned at him. "How is she, Harry?"

A million words bubbled to his lips, some of them more vulgar than he'd ever cared to be, full of hate and vindictiveness. But he just shook his head and said nothing. He found himself saying a lot of nothing these days. Was it because he was lazy or just completely overwhelmed?

Hermione led him over to a table. "Are you hungry? Ron went to get us sandwiches."

Hospital tearoom. Right. Sandwiches made sense. He'd been too… unsettled to eat breakfast this morning, which was hard when Mrs. Weasley was cooking your three or four helpings of whatever you wanted and all you'd had for dinner was a couple of cookies the night before. He was starving.

"Sandwiches would be great," he told her quietly.

At least something made sense.

Hermione continued to frown at him. Should she try to comfort him? Ask for more information? She wasn't good at this sort of thing.

"Did she speak at all?"

Harry could feel the rage rise and then finally ebb as he watched her face, her expression of fretting but genuine concern.

"Yeah. She spoke to me. But she doesn't realize that she's—" Harry choked on the word _safe_. Was anyone really safe?

Hermione grasped the hand that was on the table with both of her own. "Everything will be all right, Harry. It'll all end right. You'll see."

Harry almost cracked a smile. "I wish I was as sure as you, Hermione."

"You should be," she instructed him. "Who would know, better than I?"

When he didn't answer her except to stare at her unfeelingly, she went on: "Harry," she began, "you know I'll be with you to very end of all this, don't you?" Her hold on his hand tightened. "No matter what?"

He actually found in it himself to grin this time. "Yeah, I know."

Hermione looked relieved, but then noticed something past his shoulder that she began to wave at frantically.

"Hey, Ron! Over here!"

Harry looked around to see his best friend trying to navigate his way through a maze of tables. Harry turned around with a sigh. "At least I've got one of you," he mumbled.

Hermione looked at him, startled. And then she smiled at him softly. "Oh, Harry. Could you ever doubt him?" she asked. "I know he's a little pig-headed—and maybe a little jealous—but if there is anyone on your side, I mean, really. You're his friend. That's all that will ever matter to him."

"I know."

"Know what?" Ron asked, having managed to work his way over.

"That you got me my favorite kind of sandwich, didn't you Ron?" Hermione answered smoothly.

Ron looked at her blankly. "Um, sure. Is turkey on rye all right?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, you _know_ I hate turkey."

Harry tried not to laugh as Ron and Hermione quickly fell into their normal state never-ending argument. Ron made him laugh, made Hermione laugh. He took so many things for granted—loyalty, for one. Loyalty to family, loyalty to friends.

"Look, do you want the sandwich or not? I can eat both, you know!" Ron threatened.

"I suppose I'll eat it." Hermione said with a dignified sort of exasperation, and she pulled it out of Ron's reach. "I'm just saying that after seven years you might know what my favorite sandwich is—"

"Oh yeah? What's my favorite sandwich? You don't know, do you? Hah!"

Harry did laugh this time. Ron took so much relish in little victories.

It was good to have friends.

* * *

A/N: So those who have read regularly will have noticed by now that I don't update on regular basis. Don't expect me to begin to do so anytime soon. I did, however, make this chapter extra long. I hope you enjoy.

----Shang Penguin


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I think I've just set a new record for how long I can go without updating... I'm not dead! Really! My computer was just out of commission for over a month. Oops.

* * *

Theodore gently slipped in through the door. The sun had almost been set when he had seen Pansy home, and it was well into the evening when he quietly stepped into the manor's library. Hopefully his father was already asleep, several floors above—

—which was shown not to be likely when he noted a fire lit in the grate of the salon and heard the mutter of voices filter through the open doorway. He almost backed out again to make his way to his own room instead (maybe just pick a school book out of his trunk) , but decided to see if he could covertly make it past the shaft of light that stabbed into the darkness of the hallway and hide safely in the rows of books beyond. And, of course, engage in some small bit of espionage as he did so…

"I don't like it, Severus; he's not like Lucius' boy—"

"He'll do. Intelligence isn't always an asset in this type of work."

If he could just make it through…

"But still, I swear the he's thick—"

Almost there…

"Good evening, Theodore."

Theodore tried not to curse aloud.

"Won't you come and sit with us?" the same voice addressed him again. He would have recognized that voice anywhere—it pierced the ears.

Theodore stood up straight, cautiously circled himself around towards his newfound audience, and tried to look appropriately sheepish. "Good evening, Madame." he murmured in return, addressing Mrs. Lestrange because of the four other people in the room she was the only one smiling at him, though her smile caused him much more discomfiture than relief.

Narcissa Malfoy sat next to her sister looking ill and insipid, her eyes unusually lucid as the reflection of the flames danced in them. These days she was normally in a state of chemical-induced apathy, and she did hold a large glass with a thin film of liquor at the bottom. Theodore suspected it had been filled and refilled more than once since she had arrived.

Severus Snape stood on one side of the fireplace raising a curious eyebrow as he stared at Theodore over a still half-full glass of brandy while Theodore's father, Patroclus Nott, stood on the other side and squinted at him critically. Theodore avoided his father's eyes out of habit and stared at the floor instead.

As the silence lengthened, Theodore was suddenly very sure he had been the topic of discussion several moments before. So they thought he was stupid? How fortuitous.

"How much did you hear, boy?" his father snapped at him.

"Not very much, sir, not really—"

"I think, I think that," Narcissa started, stumbling ungracefully over her words. Perhaps her lucidity was an illusion after all. "I think he should leave. This isn't a discussion for… a discussion for children."

Snape turned to Theodore's father. "She's right, Patroclus," he agreed, with a brief warning glance at Theodore. "Send the boy upstairs—"

Bellatrix waved a hand to cut Snape off. "But he's not a boy anymore. He's taken the mark. That in and of itself makes him a man, doesn't it?" She smiled at Theodore again when he temporarily lifted up his eyes, dropping them again when he felt his face redden, something he thought only Pansy could do to him. Theodore continued to examine the grain of the wooden floor beneath his feet.

"Do you want me to leave, father?" Theodore asked, making a brave attempt to look into his father's face and still maintain his obeisance.

His father glared at him for a moment. "Hmph. Stay. We're almost done anyway."

Theodore walked over and, hesitantly, sat down in the over-stuffed chair next to Bellatrix, who lounged on a similarly over-stuffed sofa.

"You're going to be sent out on the next…excursion." Patroclus informed his son, though he chose to stare at his own glass of brandy instead.

"Am I?" Theodore asked, surprised, looking at Snape for confirmation. He knew "excursion" was a euphemistic term for when Deatheaters went out to cause general chaos and panic, but he'd been a Deatheater less than three months. He hadn't thought he'd be sent out so soon. Draco hadn't even had the chance, though he had been recruited for a specific purpose.

"The Dark Lord wishes to test your worth." Snape continued, giving him a grim smile. "We will see if you will last."

"He won't." Narcissa stated bluntly. "He's too, much too young. The Dark Lord didn't ask you until you were over twenty, didn't he Severus? And that was only 'cause you were… ex-_cep_-tion-al. So much for… for standards."

Theodore tried not to stare at her openly, because that would mean admitting that he had heard what she had just said. That bordered on traitorous talk. You _never_ wanted to be accused of that kind of talk. You never even wanted to be accused of being in the same _room_ with that kind of talk.

"Who would know all the Dark Lord's thoughts, Cissa? Perhaps he sees something in Theodore that we do not." Bellatrix countered, running her fingers through her hair as she turned to look at Theodore. "And you volunteered, didn't you? Offered yourself?"

Theodore looked down at his folded hands. "I did."

"See?" Bellatrix continued smugly. "He didn't even have to be recruited. A sign of _true_ devotion."

"Zeal isn't everything." Snape stated simply, watching Theodore fidget nervously in the chair.

"Even the weak can have enthusiasm." Narcissa added scathingly. "What matters is resilience and, and experience. The young don't have either. They know too little of the world."

Theodore wondered briefly (and perhaps a little spitefully) if Mrs. Malfoy was still sober enough to apparate.

"Bully the boy later, Narcissa, if he still proves unfit. Come," Snape offered his hand to her to help her up from her seat on the sofa, "I'll escort you back to your home. You've drunk too much of Patroclus' good brandy."

_Let her splinch herself_, Theodore thought peevishly. _It would be her own fault_.

Patroclus nodded absently as he stared into the flames, the stark contrast of shadows laying deep crevices into his face. Theodore watched him and wished, as he had many times before, that he were better at facing his father. No wonder they thought he'd never make it. They thought he was a scared, mindless little boy.

He hoped he proved them wrong. He had doubts about that sometimes.

"See them out, Theodore," his father ordered offhandedly, his mind already somewhere else. "I believe I need to retire for the evening."

"Yes, father—"

Patroclus was already walking away to make his way upstairs.

Theodore walked the other three adults to the entrance hall. Narcissa swept out without looking back, but Snape turned around to give Theodore a curious glance. Theodore shrugged in response, and Snape gave Bellatrix a disdainful glare to save face before he followed Narcissa out. Theodore watched the doors swing closed behind his former professor and kept watching them until he heard the POP of disapparation that signaled that both Snape and Mrs. Malfoy had left the estate. Only then did he turn around to face Bellatrix, who stood behind him.

She was smiling at him again, that coy, knowing little smile. He couldn't draw his eyes away from her own, though he often wished he could, so he could go off alone and analyze this feeling building inside him. It was heady, intoxicating, but on its edges was a nagging insecurity, a deep, primal fear that he couldn't explain.

The smile was predatory.

"You will do well, Theodore. I know it," she said into the silence. "You do learn so _fast_."

Theodore blushed, the memories of their last encounter coming to the forefront of his mind, his breath catching in his throat, his brain sending transmissions to certain parts of his anatomy in ways he thought was totally unnecessary…

"I, I will try."

She laughed at his expression. Was she closer now? Theodore was sure she was closer than she had been just a moment before. He could not decide if he should move closer himself, or run away and hide. Such was the nature of the smile—it tore him in two.

"You will do well, won't you? For me?"

Theodore could feel her breath on his face.

"For me? I still have so much to show you, you know…"

And then cohesive thought was no longer possible. All he remembered was the feel of her lips brutally forced against his own, overpowering his senses, his hands trying to find contact to her skin through her clothes, grasping gasping desperation that made him feel more alive than he had ever been before—

And then she was laughing at him again, at his need, and he felt the shame and frustration wash over him once more. Why did she toy with him this way? It was cruel.

"Here, my little pet? Silly child."

Did she have to laugh at him so? It was the laughter that hurt so deeply.

"Where else?" he demanded impatiently, taking a step back so he could glower at her properly. "Or did you have other plans?"

"Oh don't sulk. It doesn't suit you at all." she answered, reaching to smooth out the collar of his shirt. "But in your father's own house, Theodore? You're always so _keen_." Now the laughter was just in the tone of her voice.

He reddened and looked away. "Are you leaving then?" he asked as he grabbed her wrist to pull her hand away from his face before dropping it as if it burned him.

"I might, if you can't convince me to stay," she told him, her lips forming into a delicate smirk.

"I don't want you to go."

She stepped closer. Theodore stepped away. And then he leaned against the door blocking her exit.

"Are you going to stop me?" she asked incredulously.

In a flash of self-confidence, he shot back: "Are you going to make me get out of the way?"

And without warning their lips crushed together again, the back of Theodore's head smarting as it hit the door behind him, but he wasn't in a position to pay it any attention. One of her hands was wandering down his body as the other reached slowly and stealthily towards the door handle…

…only to be blocked by his own hand, already tightly wrapped around the device that it sought.

"Not that easy," he murmured as she broke away in surprise.

She would never ask him to just let her leave. She had to be in control, and to merely ask him would imply that she actually relied on him for some function. And he was sure that finding ways to manipulate him was practically half the fun. She was good at it, anyway.

But if he begged, she would stay. Because that would mean she had won.

So. Theodore knew the rules of the game. He _did_ learn fast. He had just learned too late. By the time he'd realized the game had begun and that he was a participant somebody had already switched the dice and marked all the cards and left him in the dark. She'd already ensnared him.

Sometimes he hated Bellatrix. Whenever she left, she took something of him with her that he couldn't name and couldn't replace. She left him empty, with the hunger gnawing at him even more desperately than before.

He thought of what Pansy had said to him earlier that day as he followed Bellatrix back into the salon (it wouldn't do to commit the act in the entrance hall—how odd that people followed the little rules all the more strictly when they broke the ones that should have actually mattered), though it was hard to make sense of anything through the fog of desire in his brain.

No, he certainly wasn't attracted to men.

But sometimes he wondered if he'd be better off if he were.

* * *

Harry sat a desk, his textbooks sprawled haphazardly around him, massaging the feeling back into his hand after a furious round of homework. Hermione could be a grueling taskmaster when she set her mind to it. Harry hoped she would have no reason to do so again anytime soon as he inspected his ink-splattered fingers for any remaining signs of life.

He walked over to his window, which looked over a significant though ugly portion of London, and wondered briefly (as he had several times before) if the world had gone to hell while his back was turned.

Britain had not taken the death of the beloved headmaster well. Harry frowned at that. It wasn't what Dumbledore would have wanted. But if Dumbledore hadn't been safe, who could be?

You could scoop the anxiety out of the air with a spoon and eat it with syrup. If you couldn't avoid an errand, you went in a sizable a group, at least three people (as if two more people could stop a horde of Deatheaters), but it was surprising just how many errands you could go without doing for an indeterminable amount of time. Harry shook his head. McGonagall had been foresighted enough to send out letters early, so parents could owl-order the things their children needed for the coming school year from the safety of their homes.

_You're enjoying this, aren't you, you inhuman scum? _Harry thought to himself, as if Voldemort could here him. _If the Dark Lord doesn't have the fear of the people, what does he have?_

It was something Remus had said, while trying to convince Molly to use the name Voldemort instead of the mysterious no-name You-Know-Who. It would be stupid not to fear Voldemort at all, it was true, but to let that fear control you meant that he had already won half the battle… a battle that was not going well at all.

And that was why they needed Nott.

The reason that the Order meeting that Harry had been invited to was so small, Remus explained to Harry later, was because Remus wanted as few as possible Order members knowing about Theodore's new source of employment. Only integral members were invited:

Moody, because he'd been there from the beginning and he could be suspicious in more ways than Remus could ever devise; McGonagall (of course) because she was equally in charge as Remus; Molly because everything that happened in the Order got back to her eventually, and because if anyone could see into a teenage boy's heart it was her; Tonks because she was a primary Ministry contact, and, well, because Remus trusted her opinion and she could give insight into what Remus called "pureblood psychology" (having had a Black for a mother) and perhaps read Theodore's body language better than he could.

Sometimes it seemed to Harry that Remus had a reason for everything.

Which included refusing to let Harry, Hermione, and the younger Weasleys (Ginny was also in residence, though she and Harry had been actively avoiding one another) leave Grimmauld Place without express, explicit permission. If he were ever going to get to searching for the remaining hocruces within the next year, he would have to develop an escape plan, which might even be easier from Hogwarts, where quarters were not so close…

The only time he had seen Theodore after the Order meeting was when he couldn't sleep and had wandered down to the kitchen to get a glass of water when he had heard Nott and Lupin discussing in that light, absurdly civil tone they both had in a negotiation situation.

"…not tell me about the security measures around the girl's estate, Theodore. This is Sturgis' second time in Azkaban in less than two years on Order business, and he isn't pleased."

"You did not ask for the security measures, did you? But I'll write them down for you as far as I know. And I'll ask my friend to drop the charges on trespassing and attempted assault. I'll just have to explain to her my plans for her protection earlier than I intended."

"Please do. I'm sure Sturgis would appreciate it. Good night, Mr. Nott."

"Good night, Mr. Lupin."

Harry had ducked back upstairs before Nott had opened the door to the hall. Protection for a friend? So the Order was giving Nott something he wanted, maybe in return for his spy work? That was definitely a little more Slytherin than just being a noble volunteer to the cause.

So Nott had connections, apparently. Perhaps that was how he slipped about, unnoticed, collecting information…

Perhaps an escape plan was within reach.

* * *

A/N: I just realized I screwed up my own timeline. Crap.

If you've gotten this far, please review! All I need are a couple of words. Please?


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I've been debating whether to continue this after book 7, and I think I will go ahead and try. It's obviously AU now, but I'll try to utilize most of Rowling's plot (which actually makes my life a little easier). Enjoy.

* * *

Harry blinked weary eyes up at the darkness. He had managed to wake himself up before the completion of the nightmare—a good sign, maybe. He had already done it several times before, but sleep never returned easily afterwards. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbed his eyelids, stared over at Ron, who was snoring soundly, and rolled his eyes before shoving on his glasses. He decided to head downstairs for a glass of water. Something as simple as a glass of water seemed suitable enough an excuse to walk around in a dark house long after the hour decent people went to sleep.

The lights (they looked like gas lamps, but since they always burned blue Harry suspected they were entirely magical) in the kitchen were lit, and Remus was sitting at the table with a pensive look on his face, staring at a piece of paper, and absently stirring a cup of tea that was no longer steaming. He looked up at Harry, who had shuffled in in his pajamas, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow: "Insomnia?"

Harry yawned. "Something like that."

"Would you like some tea? I've still got some one the burner." Remus asked, indicating the kettle on the stove behind him with his hand.

Harry sat down at the table on the other side of the corner closest to Remus. "Sure."

Remus pulled out his wand, conjured a cup, and summoned the kettle over to the table and had it pour the tea itself before soaring back over to the stove. Harry already had the tea up to his mouth to drink before he realized that Remus' piece of paper was mysteriously absent. Harry resisted the urge to scowl. Remus and his secrets.

"Anything in particular keeping you awake, Harry?"

Harry gave the question some thought, before asking, perhaps with a little derision, "Why is the Order protecting Nott's girlfriend?"

Remus' sigh was resigned. "An eavesdropper hears nothing good, Harry."

"So remember to put up an imperturbable charm next time. I wasn't _looking_ to eavesdrop."

"Are you telling me, your former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, to be, as it has been put, constantly vigilant?"

Harry grinned. "Maybe I am."

"Good advice, advice I should take… but still, Harry, people do have a certain expectation of privacy, even while living under the same roof."

"Do you not know how to cast an imperturbable charm? I'm sure Hermione could show you."

"I'm sure she could." Remus answered blandly, though his mouth twitched.

"So why is the Order protecting Nott's girlfriend?"

"Not easily put off, are you?"

"Nope."

"Firstly, I am unaware of the nature of their relationship. He merely referred to her as 'she.'"

"Right. That's why he asked for the Order to protect her in particular."

"It was what he asked for in return for his work. We're to give her a safe house after she finishes school."

"That's all he wanted?"

"All he asked for. He seemed very put off by the disappearance of Draco Malfoy. He did not want the same for Miss Parkinson."

Harry nearly spit out his tea. "_Malfoy_ and _Parkinson_? You trust him when he admits to being fond of _Malfoy_ and _Parkinson_?"

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"Deatheaters wouldn't have made it into Hogwarts if it hadn't been for Malfoy!" Harry yelled, his chair violently thrust backwards as he stood up. "Doesn't that mean anything?"

Silence prevailed for several minutes before Remus spoke. "People are sleeping upstairs, Harry, and some of them really do need their rest," he rebuked quietly. "I think you would be more comfortable if you sat down."

Harry almost gave into the urge to stalk from the room, out of the house, away from the calm and collected professor-like man in front of him, whose composure only made him want to hit a wall again. But he sat down instead, feeling the need to argue his case.

"If it hadn't been for Malfoy, Dumbledore might still be alive, Remus." he stated flatly.

"Nott did not condone Malfoy's actions. He seemed genuinely distressed that Malfoy had been taken in by Deatheaters—and then used and discarded by them."

"But how can you trust someone who's friends with a Deatheater?"

"Affection does strange things to people, Harry." Remus answered, his expression telling Harry that his thoughts had drifted elsewhere. "Sometimes it makes people do stupid things. But occasionally it inspires them to do things that are quite noble."

"And Parkinson, she used to bully Hermione all the time at school, she was a real bi—"

"Really, Harry?" Remus raised a curiously innocent eyebrow.

"Er, never mind. And she used to hang around Malfoy like he was God's gift to mankind, made you want to throw up in your own mouth. Completely brainless."

"I am going to hazard a guess, Harry, and suggest that perhaps Nott knows Malfoy and Parkinson better than you do."

"Well, sure he does, but—"

"And perhaps that they have some redeemable qualities, _which do not by any means excuse their faults_, but can still stir up a certain amount of fondness under certain circumstances. The capabilities and conundrums of the human heart are endless in number."

"You sound like Dumbledore.That's taking for granted that Nott's human, or has a heart. He's a Slytherin, for goodness sake."

"And Wormtail was a Gryffindor." Remus countered, his mouth stretched in a tight, grim line. "Any mistrust I may have against Mr. Nott is currently outweighed by the Order's need for information, Harry. I need you to understand that."

"So when will you stop trusting him? After somebody dies? He could end up betraying any of us! What if it was Tonks, would you care then—"

Remus' hand went compulsively to his shirt pocket as the color drained from his face. "You think I haven't thought of that, Harry?" he asked, his voice, suddenly hoarse, was much more quiet, the strain in it obvious. "You think I don't think of it every day? Every time I see her? You think I don't wonder if it will be my false move that gets her killed?" His eyes were hard and glossy in the dim kitchen lights as they stared back into Harry's.

Harry could not remember Remus using words with such intensity, and shame quickly rushed in to douse his anger. "Sorry, Remus. I—I shouldn't have said that. I know you care about Tonks. And the Order."

This seemed to placate his former professor, and Harry watched as Remus' shoulders visibly relaxed, his body unstiffen, although he didn't say anything in response to Harry's apology, and his hand still rested on his shirt pocket.

Harry peered curiously at this. At first he thought that Remus had just settled his hand on his heart, which was unusually dramatic for him, but might have been the result of a heart whatsit, palpitation, kind of thing. But as his hand remained, Harry thought about what Remus had said, about the "capabilities and conundrums of the human heart," and an idea that had first been planted in the back of Harry's mind when he had first walked into the kitchen began to take form…

"What were you looking at when I came in, Remus?"

"What do you mean Harry?" Remus asked as he quickly brought his hand down to his side.

"The piece of paper you've got in your pocket."

Remus blinked at him for a moment, impassively, and then asked Harry, looking quite torn: "Promise not to tell anyone, will you?"

"Yeah, of course." Harry affirmed, as enthusiastically as he thought he could without seeming too eager.

Remus reluctantly pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, gently, some might say affectionately, smoothed it out on the table, and handed it over to Harry.

Harry read through the official document critically, his eyes widening as he realized what it was. "Really, Remus? But—that's great! When are you going to ask her?" he asked as he handed it back.

"Next time I see her, if I can work up the courage." Remus answered as he folded the blank marriage certificate back and placed it safely in his pocket. "It will have to be a small event though. And quiet. I hope she won't mind."

"I'm sure she'll understand. We'll have to have a party! Oh come on, Remus! You know Mrs. Weasley will insist when she finds out."

"Mrs. Weasley is currently busy sorting out her own son's wedding, not to mention plans for your own birthday celebration. She will hardly have the time."

"So what, I'm turning of age! _You're_ getting _married_!"

"That is taking for granted that she says yes."

"You really think she won't, after last June?"

"Perhaps she will have come to her senses by now." Remus answered mildly. "Let's take things as they come, shall we?"

* * *

Theodore stared at his reflection in the mirror, and then tentatively dabbed ointment onto the colorful bruise that had blossomed under his left eye. The touch stung, but the balm had a soothing effect, and even as he watched the mark began to shrink.

It had been the result of his discussion with Pansy over the nature of the intruder who her parents had asked the Ministry to throw in Azkaban to await trial for "tampering with their household wards, probably with intentions of ravishing their daughter." Though the discussion had also resulted in Pansy agreeing to try and manipulate her parents into letting the intruder, a one Sturgis Podmore, off with fines and possibly a restraining order, it had also included Pansy using words like "chauvinist" and "sneaking" and "bastard" in conjunction in reference to Theodore himself, as well as Pansy grabbing the nearest object that she could pitch reliably (in this case a mantle clock) and throwing it at him with the promise that if he ever pulled anything like this again that he would be carrying away his necessities in a "goddamn bleeding wicker basket."

On the other hand, she had been so angry she had not asked why he had done such a thing. This could only be in his favor.

He heard the CRACK of apparition that could only mean that Stubbinson had appeared in his bedroom, and then there was a gentle but hurried knock on his bathroom door.

"Master Theodore?"

Theodore swung open the door. "Yes?" he asked the elf who looked up at him with a trembling lip.

"Your father says to be ready." And then the elf disapparated out of the room with another CRACK and without another word.

Theodore stared at where Stubbinson had been, and then he turned to look back at the mirror to see that he had gone ashen. But an almost professional numbness had settled over him, and he walked over to his bed and sat on it. Then he awaited the call, a call which had no sound, but a call he doubted he would be able to ignore.

* * *

You know what to do. It'll only take a minute of your time, and it'll make my day. 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: It seems I can go months without being able to write anything, and then suddenly knock out a chapter in less than a day. I wonder if any has waited around long enough to still be reading this. Warning: bleakness and angst abound in this chapter. But it's extra long! Enjoy.

* * *

"What was that, exactly? What the _hell_ was _that_?" Snape asked him hotly, not even waiting until they had both settled firmly on the ground from apparating. Theodore, still unused to suddenly appearing and disappearing, stumbled and almost fell over except for Snape snatching his arm, as much to hold him up as to shake an answer out of him. "What were you _thinking_?"

Finding himself able to stand and balance on his own, Theodore jerked his arm out of Snape's hold. "There wasn't _exactly_ a great deal of time for thought," he answered shakily, and winced. His voice was quivering like a child's. Taking a moment to compose himself, he continued, his voice more steady: "I acted in a way I thought most befitting of a Deatheater. What else should I have done?"

"You acted in a way most befitting of a _psychopath_, Theodore," Snape rebuked, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I understand the difference is subtle, but it is important." He shook his head and turned to walk into the kitchen. "I need a drink."

Theodore slumped onto the couch in the living room they had appeared in. He looked around at the aging, lackluster decorating and asked loudly, so Snape could hear him in the next room: "What exactly is this Spinner's End anyway? Whoever owns the place must really not give a shit."

"I own it, and you are correct, in that eloquent way of yours, that I do not give a shit. It can stand until eternity, or God might have mercy on this pitiful earth and raze the blight to the ground, but I still wouldn't give a shit," Snape answered from the doorway, returning with two tumblers half full of a clear liquid, one of which he handed to Theodore. "Drink it. Your pallor is almost as bad as mine."

"You didn't bring the bottle? Your liver must be weeping with gratitude."

"It won't be by the end of the evening."

Theodore sipped his drink. It burned at the back of his throat, but he swallowed, and put the glass down. He pulled off his spectacles and tried to clean them with the edge of his waistcoat. "I can barely see a thing. How did they get dirty so fast?"

"Blood spatter does that," Snape informed him icily as he sat opposite of him. His drink was already gone.

All things together, it had not been a good night for either of them. Snape's edginess was excusable. Theodore gave up on his glasses for now and set them aside. Picking up his tumbler to take another drink, he noticed just how badly his hand was shaking. It was surreal to watch—his mind was surprisingly numb, but his body was still coming down from the adrenaline.

"You are going to need an exceptional stain remover to get the blood out of your clothes. It can leave some really stubborn spots."

"Would you be able to recommend a brand?"

He had just killed a man. Ought he to have felt a bit more emotional after killing a man? It seemed that it would be the natural course of things. He was sure there was some kind of experimental study where they concluded that killing fellow human being equals intense emotional anguish, anxiety, remorse, etc… but all he could do was to discuss stain removal.

If this was Snape's attempt to comfort or distract him, he was more of a screwed up bastard than Theodore had originally realized.

"No brand, but I usually keep on hand some of the custom product I designed and created for my own use. I'll see if I have any." Snape stood up and swept away through another door way.

Theodore looked at his drink again. His hand was still shaking, but he brought the tumbler to his lips and tilted his head back to swallow all of it. He choked, started a coughing fit, and probably spluttered half of it on to himself and the carpet.

Theodore had not felt well about the excursion from the beginning. His primary goal in this endeavor of his was to Find Draco, and he didn't see how terrorizing muggles would help him in achieving that. His secondary goal had been to Avoid Harming Anyone Permanently, because his life was complicated enough without the kind of moral crises that followed the committing of such acts.

So far, he had managed to fail at both.

They had gone into a predominantly muggle neighborhood to begin with one of the few wizarding families who lived there, above whose property they would leave the Dark Mark. While living in a muggle neighborhood did not actually make you an official _blood-traitor_, precisely, it _was_ major demerits in the Dark Lord's book. Theodore's own assigned task had been to find the daughter and bring her downstairs. Easy, right? Even a green, seventeen-year-old, scared to death rookie could do that, right?

Apparently not. He had entered her bed room, while her parents were torn violently from their beds, their yells of surprise cut off, muffled, as they were moved downstairs themselves, and had found her own bed empty. Confused, he poked around the room, before he heard a whimper from inside of the closet. He walked over, stared at its sliding doors silently for a moment, listening, and then slid them open.

Owlish eyes, already red from crying, peered up at him. Damn, she could only have been thirteen or fourteen at the most. Had he seen her at school? Bumped into her in a hallway? He was glad the mask hid his face. He didn't think he could stand the idea of her knowing who he actually was. And he was supposed to hand her over to torturers, who were probably now mutilating and murdering her parents? He didn't have the stomach for this. He just wanted to find Draco. He just wanted to go home. The thought of taking her downstairs made him want to vomit on his own shoes.

Moral ambiguity was not good for his digestion.

He should have killed her, right then, without hesitation. Instead he'd had the brilliant, desperate idea to help her escape out the window. Temporary insanity. After some encouraging and with the help of some hastily acquired bed sheets, she dropped unharmed onto the bushes below.

He should have known that she'd never make it even half way across the front yard.

Two Deatheaters burst out of the front door. One of them yelled out a paralysis spell and with a rush of blue light she fell to the ground, her face in the grass.

"How'd she get out?" one asked, looking at the other who had cast the spell and was standing over the girl.

They both turned to look back at the house, saw the bushes, the rope of bed sheets, and then finally her open window, within which Theodore was standing. He couldn't move. He was busted.

"Stupid boy! Can't even overpower a little girl?" Theodore could tell from the man's voice that he was grinning under his mask.

"We'll have to do it for him," said the other, more quietly, as he levitated the girl's frozen body and had her float inside the house behind him as he and the other Deatheater returned.

Theodore turned his back to the window and promptly slid down the wall to sit under it. That had been close. Better to be thought incompetent than a hero. He might survive the night that way. The new primary goal was Make It Until Tomorrow Morning. All he had to do was sit here and wait it out—

That was when he heard the first scream. It was the beginning of many.

Her parents weren't dead yet. They began to plead, and then to beg, and then to sob horribly, unceasingly, a terrible counter melody to their daughter's own cries.

He was frozen below the window, helpless, a coward. He knew he could do nothing, just as he had never been able to do anything to stop his father's calculated humiliations and drunken rages, Draco's foolish plots and rash choices. Always at the whim of others, broken like an unwanted toy, something in the girl's screams reverberated at his core, a helplessness that twisted into frustration, and then to bitterness, and finally to rage. She was still screaming, but now he was screaming with her in anger and hate and in their shared shame—

"Theodore, come on, we've got to move," someone said gently. "It's over."

Theodore looked up at Snape, who was crouched over him with his mask in his hands. He had taken Theodore's and placed it on the floor. Theodore stared at it.

"Your stillness and silence led me to think that you might be dead," Snape explained. "They finished almost ten minutes ago—"

"I can still hear her," Theodore countered quietly.

Snape's expression was stony. "Theodore, they finished with the girl ten minutes—"

"I _said_, I can still hear her."

Snape stood up slowly, as if thinking, and finally answered: "I expect you may hear her for the rest of your life."

Theodore put his head in his hands. He could not look up at his former professor.

"Come, Theodore. The others will smell out your weakness if I do not return with you soon. They may have already."

Theodore took the proffered hand and stood up, then stooped to pick up his mask. They walked out into the hallway together.

The top of the stairs offered a good view of remnants of the proceedings. Three mangled bodies, destroyed almost beyond recognition, two larger than the last. The Deatheaters enjoyed their work. He had heard their laughter scattered among the cries of the newly deceased.

Theodore froze again at the top of stairs, at the sight of the girl's body, the blood on her face and her naked torso and legs, and that was when he began to shake.

"Theodore, please," Snape pleaded as he reached out for Theodore's arm, which he never got because Theodore was already gone.

As he sprinted down the stairs and launched himself at the closest Deatheater, the one he knew had been in charge, something in the back of Theodore's mind told him this was a highly irrational course of action. But something else had already doused his mind with gasoline and thrown the match. The fire raged through his brain and through his body and down to his soul, and no barrier could stop it. It had been hidden away too long, festering like a sore.

Theodore had always been thin, but he was wiry and able to hold his own against the larger man. Perhaps the only reason Theodore _did_ survive the encounter was because he had completely accidently knocked the Deatheater's wand out of his hand when he tackled him.

They rolled across the floor and knocked over a lamp stand. Theodore ignored the yells of Snape and the other Deatheater as he tried to land a punch on the man's face before he got a finger to the eye or a knee to the groin and got thrown off.

The crash of fallen vase, the prickling of glass on the back of his neck as he rolled over it, and suddenly the other man had a knife, which Theodore assumed had been a back up hidden in his coat, and was attempting to skewer Theodore's face, his arms, his chest, anything—

Theodore wrenched it out of his hands, rolled the man onto his back, grabbed his hair to pull his head back, and brought the knife to his neck. Suddenly the only movement between them was heaving chests of deep, desperate breaths to support their exertion. The room was also silent, except for the screaming in Theodore's ears, which crowded out all other noise.

The man was at his mercy. No one had ever had been at his mercy before. Theodore could see eyes underneath the man's mask, full of fear and loathing.

"Give me one reason," whispered Theodore, though it seemed loud to the others in the dead silence of the room, "give me _one_ _reason_ why I shouldn't kill you like you killed that girl."

The man swallowed, but said nothing.

Before the rage could begin to ebb, Theodore picked up the man's head by the hair and banged the back of it against the hard wood floor.

"I said, give me _one damn good reason why_—"

The door burst open and Theodore could see the boots and the edge of the cloak of the person who had come in.

"Why has the Dark Mark not yet been placed?"

The ice of her voice doused the remaining flames enraging his brain and clutched at his heart. Why did it always have to be Mrs. Lestrange? The rage was washing away… he was losing his nerve…

"The Dark Lord grows impatient, he does not like waiting. And where in God's name is Rodolph—"

Theodore knew he had just been noticed. Oh God, he was going to die. He didn't know what the punishment for assaulting another Deatheater was, but he was pretty sure it ended in death. Or that he would at least prefer that it end in death. The room again was silent until someone else came in through the open door, this time with a much more reserved step.

"What is keeping you all from completing your task? Have you forgotten the incantation?"

The voice was a gentle, curious hiss. Theodore knew who it was and barely bit back a whimper. The man below him let out a strangled cry, but Theodore just pressed the knife harder on his neck. Blood welled up around the blade.

Theodore had never been in the presence of the Dark Lord before. His own Dark Mark had been given to him by his father and Snape at the Nott manor house. He had hoped never to actually meet He-Who-Must-Be-Named in person. Some Deatheaters had gone through the entire first war without doing so.

"Why have you not finished what you have started, boy? You are distracting everyone else from their duties."

Theodore swallowed, and, with all his will power, forced himself to slowly raise his head to look up at his master. Dark red eyes bored into him like a drill, but an almost amused smile played on the Dark Lord's thin, bloodless lips. Apparently he had borrowed it from Bellatrix, whose face was utterly unreadable.

"The Nott boy, yes?"

Theodore nodded once, unable to take his eyes away.

"It would not do to leave undone what you have already begun. Kill him."

_Kill him_. Those words broke through the screaming like a dagger through the skin and to the heart.

"Do as the Dark Lord commands you, Theodore," added Bellatrix. "You must obey."

Theodore slowly looked down again at the man below him, and the screaming in his ears began to build to a deafening crescendo. So he cut it off with a swift stroke across the man's neck.

The man's torn jugular sprayed blood across Theodore's face and clothes and hands, warm and sticky and vile. Someone grabbed Theodore's shoulder and pulled him up off of the newly deceased and planted him back on his feet.

Bellatrix walked over and kicked off the man's mask. Rodolphus Lestrange's face, twisted in terror, stared up at the ceiling.

Theodore visibly recoiled, not from the body, but from Bellatrix, who was now in front of him, smiling faintly. "Such a considerate gift, Theodore," she told him as she stroked his cheek through the blood on his face. "You're always so thoughtful." Theodore pulled his face away. He had just murdered her husband, and she was _thanking_ him?

She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Cast the Dark Mark, Bella," said Lord Voldemort, "and then return to my side. The rest of you already have your orders." Then he swept away out the front door, and Bellatrix followed with the remaining, still masked Deatheater, leaving Theodore and Snape alone, if one didn't count the four corpses.

"We are getting out of here _now_," Snape told Theodore quietly but heatedly. "Hold on to me, you are in no shape to apparate. But if we get separated you are to find me at Spinner's End, all right? Come on."

Theodore grasped as firmly as he could to the front of Snape's cloak, and then they vanished with a faint pop.

Now Theodore sat on the couch, waiting for Snape to come back with stain remover. He watched the liquid in his tumbler. It had stopped quivering, and so had he.

"Here. Have your house elf use it." Snape was holding a green glass bottle out to him. Theodore took it.

Snape also had a full tumbler when he sat across from Theodore again.

Theodore looked up at him, away from his hands. "I can't hear her anymore."

"Is that good news? Because I could use some." Snape tipped his head back with practiced ease to swallow the rest of his drink. He did not choke. "Would you like another?" he asked, peering critically at his empty tumbler as if it were a first year's blotted essay.

"Yes, I would."

"Go get the bottle then."

Theodore rose to his feet. "If you keep dashing your liver's hopes like this it's only a matter of time before it commits a murder-suicide and takes the both of you down."

"Just get the damn bottle."

Theodore entered the kitchen and found a tall bottle of Ogden's finest on the counter top. "Are you supposed to drink firewhiskey in tumblers?" he called.

"What part of 'just get the damn bottle' did you not bloody well understand, Theodore?" Snape called back.

Theodore returned and placed the bottle on the coffee table. "You're an alcoholic."

"You're a foolhardy, barely-of-age imbecile who almost blew his cover this evening. I suppose you're proud of yourself?

Snape looked up from pouring himself another glass just in time to see the fleeting spasm of agony cross Theodore's face. He looked at his full tumbler, sighed inwardly, and then looked back his former student. "Let's clean you up and return you to your home," he told Theodore as he put his glass down on the coffee table. "Drinking myself unconscious can wait another hour or so."

Theodore didn't move, but stared again at his hands, which were handling the green bottle. "Do you think she wanted me to kill her husband?"

"Bellatrix is perfectly insane, Theodore. You shouldn't be concerned with what she does or does not want."

"It's kind of late for that, don't you think?"

Snape narrowed his eyes at Theodore. "What exactly is going on between you and the newly widowed Mrs. Lestrange anyway?"

Theodore eyes swiveled up and then swiftly back down again. "Nothing," he answered, and then briskly continued: "I think I should just go home. I can clean up fine on my own there."

"Fine. I'll apparate you over there."

"Haven't you ever heard that Buzzed Apparition is Drunk Apparition? I'd rather not have us both be splinched, thank you very much."

"_Do you want to walk?_"

"No."

"Then shut up," snapped the older man. "At least the rest of the Deatheaters will no longer think you're a scared little twit."

"Really?" Theodore asked as he took the hand Snape had proffered him.

"But now I know you're one."

"Oh."

* * *

A/N: Whew! That was a bit of an emotional slog. Be sure to REVIEW--and please comment as to whether you think I should move up the rating or not.


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